Peter Watts: Echopraxia

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” he said at last.

“You got caught in the crossfire.”

“ What crossfire? Why were the zombies—”

“The vampire,” Lianna said. “Valerie, actually.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shrugged.

“So Valerie the Vampire summons her zombie forces against the Bicamerals. And now they’re all sitting together just down the hall, munching chips and cocktail wienies because—Moore said something about a common enemy.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” She tried for a smile—“You’re behind on your Cognital”—but it fell flat.

“Look, I’m sorry I crashed your party but—”

“Dan, the truth is I don’t really know a whole lot more than you do at this point.” She spread her hands. “All I can tell you for sure is, well, you gotta trust them. They know what they’re doing.”

She stopped just short of patting him on the head.

He stood. “Glad to hear it. Then I guess I’ll leave you to your games, and thanks for the meal.”

She looked up at him. “You know that can’t happen. Jim already told you that much.”

“Are you going to tell me where my bike is, or do I have to walk?”

“You can’t leave, Dan.”

“You can’t keep me prisoner.”

“It’s not us you have to worry about.”

“Who’s us, this time? Bicamerals, vampires? Koalas?”

She pointed north across the desert, squinting. “Look out there. On that ridge.”

He did. He saw nothing at first. Then, briefly, something glinted in the morning sun: a spark on the escarpment.

“Now look up,” she said. A distant shard of brightness stabbed his eye from high to the east, a reflection of sunlight off empty sky.

“Not us,” Lianna repeated. “You.”

“Me—?”

“People like you. Baselines.”

He let it sink in.

“Valerie must have hacked a fair number of sats just getting her pieces into position. As far as anything in orbit could tell, this whole chunk of desert just dropped out of existence for a good four hours last night. That got people’s attention. Someone probably slipped a drone or two under the ceiling in time to see our engine going through its paces—and those dance steps are, shall we say, a bit beyond what passes for state-of-the-art out there.” Lianna sighed. “The Bicamerals have been spooking the wrong people for years now. Too many breakthroughs, too fast, the usual. They’ve been watching, all this time they’ve been watching. And now, as far as they can tell, we’re in some kind of gang war with a bunch of zombies.

“They are not going to let this pass, Dan. Now that they’ve caught a glimpse behind the curtain they’ll have thrown a net over the whole reserve.”

And I, Brüks reflected, don’t blame them one goddamned bit . “I’m not part of this. You said it yourself.”

“You’re a witness. They’ll debrief you.”

“So they’ll debrief me.” Brüks shrugged. “You haven’t told me anything. I haven’t seen anything they haven’t, if they deployed drones.”

“You’ve seen more than you realize. Everyone does. And they will know that, so your debriefing with be aggressive .”

“So that makes you, what? My personal guard? Here to feed me, and walk me, and make sure I don’t wander off into any of the rooms where the grown-ups are talking. And yank on my leash if I try to leave. That about sum it up?”

“Dan—”

“Look, you’re giving me a choice between a vampire with her zombie army and you baselines, as you so delicately put it.”

She got to her feet. “I’m not giving you a choice.”

“I have to leave sometime. I can’t spend the rest of my life here.”

“If you try to leave now,” she said, “that’s exactly what you’ll have done.”

He looked down at her: thin as a pussy willow, she only came up to his chest.

“You going to stop me?”

She looked back without blinking. “I’m gonna try. If I have to. But I really hope it doesn’t come to that.”

He stood there for the longest time. Then he picked up his plate.

“Fuck you,” he said, and went back inside.

Within his prison, she gave him all the space in the world. She backed right off as he stalked down the hall, past the murmuring of the devout and the hyperkinetic gaze of the frozen zombies, past the closed-door deliberations of enemies-of-enemies and the open doors of dorms and studies and bathrooms. He moved without direction at first, following any corridor that presented itself, backtracking from every cul-de-sac, his feet exploring autonomously while his gut churned. After a while, some dull sullen pain behind his eyes brought him back to the here-and-now; he took more conscious note of his surroundings and decided to revisit Moore’s basement watchtower, as much for its relative familiarity as for any tactical insights he might glean.

He couldn’t find it. He remembered Lianna leading him through a hole in the wall; he remembered emerging from it after the armistice. It had to be off the main corridor, had to lie behind one of these identical oaken doors that lined the hall, but no perspective along that length seemed familiar. It was as though he was in some off-kilter mock-up of the place he’d been just an hour before, as though the layout of the monastery had changed subtly when he wasn’t looking. He started trying doors at random.

The third was ajar. Low voices murmured behind it. It swung inward easily; flat panels of vat-cloned hardwood lined the space beyond, a kind of library or map room that looked out onto a grassy compound (half sunlit, half in shadow) past the opposite end of the room. Past sliding glass doorways, arcane objects rose haphazardly from that immaculate lawn. Brüks couldn’t tell whether they were machines or sculptures or some half-assed hybrid of the two. The only thing that looked at all familiar out there was a shallow washbasin set atop a boxy waist-high pedestal.

There was another one of those inside, too, just past a conference table that dominated the center of the room itself. Two mismatched Bicamerals stood at the table’s edge, gazing at a collection of dice-size objects scattered across some kind of hard-copy map or antique game board. The Japanese monk was gaunt as a scarecrow; the Caucasian could have passed for Santa Claus at the departmental Christmas party, given the right threads and a pillow stuffed down his front.

“From Queensland, maybe,” Santa remarked. “That place always bred the best neurotoxins.”

The scarecrow scooped up a handful of objects (not dice, Brüks saw now; a collection of multifaceted lumps that made him think of mahogany macramé) and arranged them in a rough crescent across the board.

Santa considered. “Still not enough. Even if we could sift the Van Allens dry on short notice.” He absently scratched the side of his neck, seemed to notice Brüks at last. “You’re the refugee.”

“Biologist.”

“Welcome anyway.” Santa smacked his lips. “I’m Luckett.”

“Dan Brüks.” He took the other man’s nod for an invitation and stepped closer to the table. The pattern decorating the game board—a multicolored spiral of interlocking Penrose tiles—was far more complex than any he remembered from his grandfather’s attic. It seemed to move at the corner of his eye, to crawl just so when he wasn’t quite looking.

The scarecrow clicked his tongue, eyes never leaving the table.

“Don’t mind Masaso,” Luckett remarked. “He’s not much for what you’d call normal conversation.”

“Does everyone around here speak in tongues?”

“Speak—oh, I see what you mean.” Luckett laughed softly. “No, with Masaso here it’s more like a kind of aphasia. When he’s not linked in, anyway.”